


Some Long Forgotten Words

by thefairfleming



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Colonialist Bullshit, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, I read a lot of books about British people acting like assholes post WWI, so this is the result of that!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 06:03:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10430742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: Sometimes your friend makes a joke about wanting a fic based on Toto's "Africa," and you're juuuuuust ridiculous enough to give it to her. So. Yeah. That.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jeeno2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/gifts).



Sansa wonders how long she can stand out on the veranda before someone misses her.  Harry certainly won’t. He disappeared into the back bedroom with some blonde newly arrived from the motherland , a sweet girl whose name Sansa can’t remember, and doubts Harry will remember, either. There’s always some girl, a blonde this time, a brunette at the Royce’s New Year’s affair. Even a redhead last spring, which Sansa had found strangely amusing rather than insulting.

Inside, the music seems to have gotten louder. That’s always the way with these things, though. A pretense of civility when the evenings begin, and by the end, everyone is drunk or worse, the gramophone is skipping, and no one is with the person they came with. Sansa had once found someone’s dress shoved behind a sofa cushion the morning after a party, and wondered how in the hell the woman had gotten home.

When she was younger, she’d thought that kind of debauchery added to the glamour of a life out here, far away from the cold, formal country of her birth, but now it just makes her tired.

And lonely.

So she stands outside the party in her own home, nursing a pink gin and staring out at the rain, and thinks maybe she just won’t go back inside at all. Maybe she’ll walk out into this rain, walk all the way down the mountainside in her silk heels and never look back. She actually takes a step forward, the ice rattling in her glass when headlights suddenly cut through the sheets of rain. A car is coming up the drive, and Sansa frowns. Fashionably late is one thing, but the party’s been going for hours now, and she no longer has it in her to play hostess-

And then she sees whose car it is. Not a car at all, really, an old jeep that only works half the time, the leather seats cracked, the windscreen cloudy. She should know. She’s been in that jeep enough times.

It pulls to a stop, and even as the rain continues to pour, Jon Snow jumps out of the driver’s seat, holding a jacket over his head as he makes for the front porch.

The porch where Sansa is currently standing.

She takes a step back, almost without thinking, and a small, cowardly part of her thinks about dashing back inside, quickly, before he’s seen her.

He isn’t supposed to be here, she thinks, her heart pounding almost as loudly as the rain.

Oh, they’d invited him. They invited everyone they knew to these things, but never in a million years had Sansa thought he’d actually come.

But she doesn’t run, doesn’t hide, and stands there as Jon jogs up the steps and comes to a stop only a few feet away from her.

He’s soaked despite the jacket, dark hair dripping onto his dress shirt, his shoes muddy.

He’s also surprised to see her out here, she can tell. It’s in the unguarded, hungry look that briefly crosses his face.

Jon had known he’d see her, of course- it was her house, her party- but he hadn’t prepared for it quite yet.

She’s knows the feeling.

The last time she’d seen Jon, she’d been slipping her dress back over her head, telling him that this, whatever it was between them, had to stop. No matter how good it felt, how right.

How easy.

The place where they’d made a home may be large, but the world they inhabited was small, and someone would find out. Someone would talk. And while Harry didn’t take his own marriage vows that seriously, he wouldn’t be as casual about Sansa doing the same. For weeks after she’d ended it, Sansa had had nightmares about Harry storming down the mountain to Jon’s farm, the farm that should’ve been hers had Robb not changed his will just before the war. Harry hated Jon for that, and he’d hate him even more if he’d known…

But he doesn’t know, and it’s over anyway.

It just doesn’t feel over when Jon is watching her in that way he has and despite the party just a few feet away, Sansa feels like they could be the only two people in the world.

He always made her feel like that. Sometimes she thinks that’s why she sought him out, why the whole thing started. Everything in her life felt so raucous and loud, and then with Jon, it was quiet. Still. Whispered conversations instead of false, bright laughter.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she finally manages to say. “Winterfell is all the way down the mountain, and the rain…,”

One corner of Jon’s mouth lifts in something too sad to quite be a smile. “It would take a lot to keep me away from you, Sansa.”


End file.
